Andy waited, comforted by the knowledge that they had not come out, until the minutes passed his patience and he went in, searched the gallery unavailingly, came out again and wandered on dispiritedly to the pleasure pier.  There, leaning over the rail, he saw her again almost beneath him in the sand, scantily clad in a bathing suit.  The man, still more scantily clad, was trying to coax her into the water and she was hanging back and laughing a good deal, with an occasional squeal.

Andy leaned rather heavily upon the railing and watched her gloweringly, incredulously.  Custom has much to do with a man’s (or a woman’s) idea of propriety, and one Andrew Green had for long been unaccustomed to the sight of nice young women disporting themselves thus in so public a place.  He could not reconcile it with the girl as he had known her in her father’s cabin, and he was not at all sure that he wanted to do so.

He was just turning gloomily away when she glanced up, saw him and waved her hand.  “Hello, Andy,” she called gaily.  “Come on down and take a swim, why don’t you?”

Andy, looking reproachfully into her upturned face, shook his head.  “I can’t,” he told her.  “I’m lame yet.”  It was not at all what he had meant to say, any more than this was the meeting he had dreamed about.  He resented both with inner rage.

“Oh.  When did you come?” she asked casually, and was whisked away by the man before Andy could tell her.  The other girl was there also, and the three ran gleefully down to meet a roller larger than the others had been; met it, were washed, with much screaming and laughter, back to shore and stood there dripping.  Andy glared down upon them and longed for the privilege of drowning the fellow.

“We’re going up into the plunge,” called Mary.  “Come on.  I’ll see you, when I come out.”  They scampered away, and he, calling himself many kinds of fool, followed.

In the plunge, Andy was still more at a disadvantage, for since he was a spectator, a huge sign informed him that he must go up stairs.  He went up with much difficulty into the gallery, found himself a seat next the rail and searched long for Mary among the bathers below.  He would never have believed that he would fail to know her at sight, but with fifty women, more or less, dressed exactly alike and with ugly rubber caps pulled down to eyebrows and ears, recognition must necessarily be slow.

While he leaned and stared, an avalanche of squeals came precipitately down the great slide; struck the water and was transformed to gurgling screams, and then heads came bobbing to the surface—­three heads, and one of them was Mary’s.  She swept the water from her eyes, looked up and saw him, waved her hand and scrambled rather ungracefully over the rail in her wet, clinging suit.  The others followed, the man trotting at her heels and calling something after her.